By Sabine Fraley
My name is a basket of pink wilting flowers, balanced on the handlebar of a bicycle. It is like the small tattoo seated upon my ankle, irrelevant, unnoticed. My name is the smell of dewy leaves, just having bathed in nature’s tears. My name is the purple that sink into your eyes. The purple that paints a sad picture.
Originally, my name had a disempowering definition. So my mother created a new meaning, “helper of the world” which she thought fit the body of my name.
My friends have common simple names, like Emma, I know three Emmas. And I still am yet to meet someone who shares my name. Only one person can make my name enjoyable. My Mimi lets the letters brew on her tongue, before they all gently go hand in hand, and are released, leaping into the ears of others.
If I could change my name, I would change it to something sweeter, like Hannah. Hannah who’s sweet like honey. Or April, my birth month, which emanates warmth, not bitterness.
When I think of my name, I think of aluminum, an aluminum heart. Fragile, yet sparkling and pure. My name rests peacefully. Yet is said with haste. But nevertheless, I wouldn’t change my name for more, or anything less than, Sabine.